The Irishish Doesn't Suck

While I know it may not be technically true, in my book Irish Coffee simply refers to coffee that has become even more fun to drink by the addition of alcohol. Sure, Irish Whiskey is the traditional route, but that's not necessarily the most creative recipe ever. And I like creating new recipes! Sometimes that's a new blend for mashed potatoes, sometimes it's a new modification to a pie, but tonight! The coup de grace! A new whatever you call liquor in Irish Coffee!

Sam had a hockey game tonight, and what better way, short of a paper bag wrapped around a bottle, to drink in public than spiking coffee? Plus, it's damn cold in most ice arenas. Dual purpose beverage.

Of course, normally I brew up some coffee, and Sam Irishes it for me. Tonight, apparently, cleaning out his car somehow trumped my future beverage slash hockey game enjoyment.

He left it up to me.

Bad move.

I had about two minutes to choose my alky, and I honestly don't know the bottles all that well. Combine that with the fact that the bottles are distributed between the kitchen and multiple places in the dining room (we do it up right, y'all). It could have taken a disastrous turn. It did not. No, really!

At that point I just started pulling every bottle out of the assorted cabinets, snagging any that seemed vaguely coffee complementary.

And thus I grace you with my new recipe for Irishish Coffee! (Bear in mind that unnecessarily dirtying extra dishes in this house is a mortal sin. This is why all the measurements involve eyeballing, not because my motto is "the more alcohol, the better". I swear, that's not my motto.)

Brew up a whole bunch of coffee- whatever will fit in a thermos (or several), but with space to spare; into the thermos it goes. Find the Van Gogh Double Espresso Vodka (Double Caffeine- says so on the label!). Pour a bunch of this into the same thermos. Find the Irish Whiskey because something has to put the "Irish" into "Irishish". Pour that into the thermos, too. Man up- pour some more in there. Coffee sometimes needs lightener, right? Know what will lighten this? Add a hugely healthy splash of Godiva White Chocolate Liqueur. You don't need much because the alcohol content therein is notsomuch; don't waste too much space, but chocolate is chocolate, ladies and gents! Add some sugar because, yes, you manned-up with the Whiskey, but it's still got to be palatable. Use a straw to sip a bit of this still incredibly hot mix out of the thermos. Add a dash more sugar because you're still not that manned-up. Congratulate yourself on your ingenuity.

The final step is hearing your husband mention whipped cream, but not until the car has already left the driveway, and swearing under your breath at that obvious miss. Make a mental note- must reattempt recipe right after you get home from the game soon, but with addition of the heretofore neglected whipped cream.

Don't forget some sort of mug to drink out of at the game. Nothing says "lush" like falling ass over teakettle backwards off the bleachers trying to suck the bottom out of a thermos.

One of us is mature. The other is a mom.

Ethan: In a book in school, there's a picture of a boy completely naked.
Me: *shrug* You know what a naked boy looks like.
Ethan: Yeah, but I think that's completely inappropriate for school.

And this is where it would have ended, if it were up to me. But no.

Ethan: Some boys in my class were looking at it.
Me, trying to keep this conversation from turning into an interrogation: Where did this book come from?
Ethan: It came from Ms. {teacher's name redacted}'s room.
Me: And what was going on in the book?
Ethan: I don't know, I wasn't reading it. The boy was just standing there. Facing forward.

And before anyone asks, no, I did not complain/express concern to the school- for lots of reasons. For one, I am so not concerned- didn't want the conversation in the first place. For two, possibly Ethan misinterpreted it. For three, every kid is curious, it's no big deal.

For four? *At worst, I am not going to be the one outing little boys.

*Why, yes. Yes, that was a joke. Glad you recognized it.

Politicians Should be Subject to the National Do Not Call Registry

Somebody link me to one of those websites where you can create a petition... Okay, no, don't do that. Instead, if someone could just create one for me?

I propose a new law to expand the Do Not Call Registry to include those Asshole Political Candidates.

Yes, I'm still on this topic.

In the last hour, I have hung the answering machine up twice on calls for candidates. This does not include the two calls that didn't make it to the answering machine.

This also does not include the previous three days where I got three calls a day from the same phone number that turned out to be some polling group paid for by censored candidate running for censored political office. That shit didn't stop until I finally picked up the phone and screamed obscenities.

Am I normally this rude? No, never. Is this nonsense turning me violently angry? Abso-frickin-lutely.

You know what else? I've already made my decisions. All you will do is push me toward the other candidate. You think there's a ton of people who haven't already decided? Bullshit. They already did. If they're undecided at this point, they're going with the candidate running under the party they already associate themselves with. They only say they're undecided because they don't want to admit that they've done no research on any of you bastards and are going to vote blindly, anyway. The others that truly are undecided? They're not going to vote at all, regardless.

So just stop it.

Oh, and... remember, back at the beginning of this rant? I had a point? No, really. Yeah. I'm absolutely serious about political candidates being subject to the Do Not Call Registry. They're running for a political office. That position is paid, right? Mostly, anyway? That can't be not-for-profit, even if the entire thing is paid for with donations. But mostly I find it to be harassment. That should be enough.

Dear Political Candidates,

I am going to give you a hint- not even a hint. No interpretation needed. Please pay attention to the following:

I am going to vote for whichever of you bitches does not send me any junk mail. Also, you have to make sure that your stupid supporters go back and pick up all those roadside signs they so carefully lined my commute with. Stop killing my planet. Planet killers.

The intelligent among you (bahahaha! Ohmygod, I am funny.) will point out a conundrum. What if more than one of us doesn't send you junk mail? Then we shall have a tie breaker! Whoever has fewer "my opponent is an asshole because" ads on television earns my vote! Now, I know it's hard to run a campaign based on your own strengths rather than your opponent's perceived weaknesses (aka the crap you either made up, exaggerated, or dug out of a dumpster), but I know you can't do it.

I Hate You So Much,
Sarah

I'm wearing purple today. Purple is cool.

Being you is cool.

Unless you're a bully.

Bullies suck.

Spellcheck does not recognize the word "epilator". It would prefer "depilatory", "ventilator", "dilatory", or "mutilator". All are oddly fitting.*

Today, ladies and gents, we are delving into the world of epilators. We begin with a brief explanation of just what an epilator is (I do have one or two male readers, I think). It is a hair-by-the-root removal device. Too brief? Let me elaborate.

This is a torture device, fit for baby rapists and puppy bakers. Only I could never do this to another human being, even if they were a baby rapist or puppy baker. It's inhumane. This is coming from me- a woman who would gladly slit your throat and watch you bleed through your grasping fingers if you were to ever touch one of my children. But I would not use an epilator on you. You're welcome.

It took me weeks to get through the first pass. I could only ever bring myself, when venturing from the knee up, to do the smallest area of skin at a time, and once I had finished a patch, I had to skip the next night. I could not mentally take the pain two days in a row.

There is all sorts of hell to be found between my knees.

I'm sort of proud of that sentence. I'll let it soak in.

The inside of the knee is just about as sensitive as it gets. I would hazard to say that it has more pain receptors than the inside of the elbow or even the philtrum. It's obviously not the most tender part of the body (gee, Sarah, glad to hear that), but it's by far the most sensitive place from which I will ever remove hair.

Truth be known, it's so much easier, months later. When epilating, I can feel it still, below the knee, but it only registers as a tiny pinch instead of "I'm pretty sure this thing is actively searing my skin off my body." (This is not an exaggeration, by the way, because there were times that I did stop, just to be sure that I really wasn't actually ripping skin off. I would tentatively move the epilator out of the way with "please god, let it still be skin and not raw flesh" chanting through my mind.) Above the knee, it's still not fun, but I no longer have the tourettesy outbursts that caused the paint to peel from the walls and the children to go running from the room, legs scrambling frantically through the air like Scooby-Doo characters trying to gain traction.

And the results? I like it muy mucho (Aladdin quote, anyone?). I'm even willing to wear skirts and shorts in public. Sam is so pleased that, whenever I venture into this realm, he brings me wine and painkillers. More wine? Can I refill your glass? The pain killers kicking in yet? He's also not so scared of snuggling with me at night- no cheese graters under the blanket to defend his own legs against.

All in all, a winning choice. I just had to wait for the blood-red haze to die away to see it.

*It is depilatory; you think you need a ventilator while using it because you are going to die; I was very dilatory in completing the job because ohmygod the agony; and, well, mutilator, no explanation needed there.

More from Ethan. He's the most entertaining.

We see a woman with multiple facial piercings walking toward us in the mall- not just several, but every conceivable nose, eyebrow and lip piercing.

Sam, quietly to me (obviously not quiet enough): I wonder what else she has pierced.
Ethan: Her ears.

I don't recall the circumstances, here, but we'll just assume it's a typical day.

Me: Bloody hell!
Ethan: That's what Gordon Ramsey says... except it's beeeeeeeeep.

A commercial comes on television for a show called "Deadliest Warrior: Viking versus Samurai".

Ethan: I think it should be "Something versus Ninja". 'Cause ninjas always win.

We are at a hotel breakfast buffet. Ethan is deciding what he wants to eat, but is disappointed to find that they only have strawberry or strawberry/banana yogurt. He is only a fan of vanilla:

Me: I'm sorry, but most people don't eat vanilla yogurt.
Ethan, with genuine confusion: What do they do with it, then?
Random Other Customer: *snort*

He's not for sale, but perhaps I'll rent him out. (Just kidding, CPS.)

boobs

Dear Beloved Reader,

A screenshot from the analytics for this blog. This is from this morning.

Don't do that. Mostly because I was forced to then do that same search. It came up with nothing, by the way. Til now.

Much love and no-seriously-does-this-look-like-the-blog-for-that,
Sarah

Don't Read This

Update- which is a term I hesitate to use because who really needs an update about Sam's urination habits? But it refers to that post- the one right down there under this one. I no linky, you scroll- if absolutely necessary. Apparently I did not understand exactly the issue. Probably because [as when a blogger writes too long a post and readers go, "too long. did not read." (like this is now would have been had I left this where it was- as an update on that post except I then pulled it off because it really did make it took long)(thanks, Sam)] I zone out when he talks too long without pauses. The issue, as he just explained it, is that the second button, the one on the inside of the pants, that one is waaaay to much trouble to bother accessing. So it has become time to actually use the flap- but only in boxers. Briefs are bad, regardless. (I taught him that bit. Am I right, ladies?) So yes, still weasling the hand in, just through the zipper. That may stop, though, since I just pointed out that the zipper has teeth. And isn't he worried about the teeth? My own form of Inception. This all still qualifies as eww.

Stream of Consciousness + Probably Too Much Information = That Which I Bestow Upon You Now

Sam called to say that his new pants... okay, because he's bought all these new clothes and is shocked to find out that people seem to treat him more respectfully and value his opinion more when he is dressed nicer. Out of jeans and into slacks, they are cut nicer and have two buttons to the front panel- thus allowing it to sit flatter against his abdomen. This is more flattering to everyone. However, he's just venturing into this world now. And he discovered, to his dismay, that this means- gasp- that apparently he has to actually use his zipper when going to the bathroom! This is a new thing- apparently. Not that we're terribly modest about such things, but I've never paid much attention before to how he goes about with the undoing of the pants.

I did know that he never used that gap that is prevalent in men's briefs. No man does, I'm told. This is vestigial, I would guess, much like the human appendix, except much more unlikely to rupture for the majority of men.

His complaint came in that now he has to not just undo one but *two* buttons *and* a zipper and then "I have to weasel my hand in there and weasel things back out! It's ridiculous!"

Really?

He's complaining to a woman about this? I actually have to pull everything down to my knees to pee, excepting if I'm in a skirt, at which point I pull that up and hope to god I don't accidentally dunk it in the toilet *or* pee on it. Oh, and, by the way? We have to use the toilet paper *every time*. Amazing, I know. None of this shake-and-dance stuff for us. Thank all the heavens. Because eww.

This post has too many links. I'll point out --> the important ones.

I was looking at -->something online this morning that reminded me that I have a crush on Wil Wheaton- this is thanks to thebloggess, who, years ago, reintroduced me to the grown-up version of him. It's just more proof that I'm a nerd-boy-groupie. So, there I am, totally immersed in stalkering Wil Wheaton, when Sam calls.

Sam: Hey.
Me: Hey, I'm gonna have Wil Wheaton's babies, if it's all the same to you.
Sam: What? Why?
Me: Huh? What do you mean?
Sam: You want to have more kids?
Me: What the hell? Of course not.
Sam: But... why do you want to have his babies?
Me: So he'd be the one impregnating me? Der. What the hell is wrong with you? (Yes, I do actually use the term "der". Twelve-year-old-pathetic, I know.)
Sam: Uhm, okay?

Which sounds exactly like permission to me.

So then I hop over -->here to find Joseph Gordon-Levitt, ohmyfriggingod, playing a guitar and singing and, ohmyfriggingod, did I mention I'm also a musician-boy-groupie, too? Hell yes. Just a man and a guitar. And Sam is too stubborn to learn guitar, dammit. I didn't know it could get better than seeing him on this Details magazine cover, which I had propped up on the desk at work as inspiration for not only me, but my coworkers, too. (Because I'm all sorts of generous. What? Most of the guys I work with are gay. And the ones that weren't took one look at the magazine and changed their minds. Yes, they did.) And then Sam took me to see Inception, and then this video?

I can't handle stalkering two people at once. It's too overwhelming.

And that, Sam, is why I didn't clean the house today. It's your fault, really.

An Early Morning Calamity

Oh, the humanity...

This is more embarrassing than my Twilight confession.

I kind of want to cry and vomit at the same time, except that my head just exploded.

Glenn Beck and I are standing on the same side of an issue.

No, wait! Come back! Do you know how hard it was for me to say that?

From thedailywh.at (because I credit where credit is due) to The Huffington Post (this is the link with the video) to Bill O'Reilly to Glenn Beck (no, neither of those... ahem... gentlemen get a link. Screw them.), Beck was on O'Reilly's show, where he said, essentially, gay marriage was a non-issue. Gay marriage is not a threat to this country. (O'Reilly? Seriously? What the hell is with that drama? "Threat"? You're such a little bitch.) (And, yes, I know the drama is because it's what makes his ratings. He's still a little bitch.)

Beck's point? Look around, folks. There are so many other issues, there is so much wrong, this is not worth the focus. He then went on to quote Thomas Jefferson, "If it neither breaks my leg nor picks my pocket, what difference is it to me?" I'm not sure the validity of the quote, but its meaning is one of the primary rules I am raising my children with. I'm fairly sure that Beck does not typically practice what he's preaching there, but fine, whatever.

For the record, I think it should be a non-issue. But when one side makes it an issue, if no one is pulling on the other side of the ol' tug-o-war, guess who wins?

Also, for the record, this is it. I haven't seen any other thing I could possibly agree with Beck on... no, wait. His "respect" for O'Reilly. That's pretty great, too.

Notes on the video itself: At 1:58, Beck says to the camera, of O'Reilly, "He's so hostile!" Then he turns back to O'Reilly, "Need a little Jesus?" And I fell off the sofa, laughing. Then there's a, uhm, "size" discussion. That's decent. I watched the full length of this clip, but you can stop by the 4:00 mark. I promise that you'll want to slit your own throat if you continue past that.

You know what Timer Warner Cable? Screw you.

You filthy bastards.

I get that you think you are technologically advanced. I get that you know that your fast-forward in On Demand mode is wonky at best, and I know that you know that I know that it is that way on purpose- makes it harder, in fact impossible, to fast-forward through those commercials that you add in in the midst of a show; oh, forgive me, that the network adds in.

Which, fine. I've not said a word. Commercials make the world go round. And you- at this goddamn point in time- limit those to commercials to 30 seconds spurts. So, fine, okay, a little bit of commercial.

Even though I pay through the nose.

For your shitty service that is so not fucking dependable that I have to watch shows On Demand because you fucking fail at recording things reliably.

And so I start a show up- one that I don't even particularly like- one that I watch because I'm most of the way into the season and I have an extraordinary sense of follow-through when it comes to shitty television series and because Cassie is watching it and I can't abandon her to face this hell alone- I start this show up and the first thing that comes across the screen is "*****". What. the. Mother Hell. What if I just want to catch the last four minutes- that bit that you mysteriously missed recording- instead of watching the whole thing? Ihateyouyousuck.

Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? You stupid kowtowing jackasses. Do you feel no sense of obligation to your customers? Are you going to allow these networks to simply keep walking all over us? Stand up for us.

You know what? I just watched one of the commercials. The first one was for the network, this one is for your service. You cancel fast-forwarding on this in order to force us to watch a commercial for an On Demand movie. Which means you are both assholes and you are using this as an example to show potential advertisers how they can pay you more money for more ad time.

So, since you're going to be making so much more money through this other source, you'll be lowering my bill, right? Right?

The next thing you'll do is make it so that we have to sit through five minutes of advertising, preemptively, every time we turn on the cable box.

You're welcome for the idea.

I'll be expecting my check in the mail.

You filthy bastards.

joven, the not-fun kind of slut.

Anyone ever notice how often I begin a post or a new paragraph with the word "so"? Not this time. This one is mid-paragraph. So, normally I don't respond at all to those comments that are like, "you write good! i right good to! you should visit and follow my blog!". There is not often a good way to reply; actually going to their blog, whether to check them out or blast them, is just feeding into their psychosis. Blasting them, as follows, just gives them more publicity. The one time I did respond was not even on my blog; it was on Cate's, where one of the comments was from some guy named Steve (hi, Steve! /me waves), saying "you are invited to follow my blog", and my internal reaction was "Fuck you, Steve! You are a world class asshole!", but I don't tend to go around dropping f-bombs on other people's blogs, except maybe Andy's, and I also knew that Cate was not going to respond with the righteous indignation proper to the situation because she is, contrary to popular belief, too polite for that, so I felt the need to speak up on her behalf without the use of the f-word, and I did manage to, but just barely. (Super long but grammatically correct sentence WIN.)

And I get it. There is an aspect of "look how popular I am" involved in blogging for a lot of people. This is either A) not the case for me, or B) (and more likely) I'm really not that good at it or devoted to it. Regardless, it does seem to run rampant. And when a comment is obviously just a ploy to get people to come to the blog of said commenter, I am generally very forgiving, IF- and it's really not a big IF- if the person has taken the time to read my post and then written a comment pertaining to it and then sticks in an advertisement for their own blog, then I am okay with it.

And then there are the times that the comment is just spam. And then there are the times that you get the combination. It looks like just a lame c/p comment and you feel sort of sorry for this loser and then you realize that the link is spam. And then you want to shoot this faker between the eyes.

I am not positive that this user is just a spammy-spammer. I did not follow the "link". No one is to go check! Do not fall into a poorly set trap! But what kind of blogger doesn't have their own blog linked to their profile? Spammers, that's what kind.

Oh, little trashcan icon, you are so tempting.

"But what if, while it is not specific to your current post, it is just an honest reaction to you and not c/p?", you say? (Because I know you speak back to me while you read this.) Oh, contrare, my loves!

What. a. slut. And might I point out that he didn't even become an in-name-only follower of my blog? So, not only is he a slut, but he's like the frat-boy who finishes first and leaves early. He's the not-fun kind of slut. Way to ruin the party, joven.

Dear Discovery OnDemand,

Please, for the love of holy-jesus-stop-scarring-my-children-and-my-retinas, stop stop stop stop playing that commercial for howstuffworks.com where they show the whale being harpooned. I know they're using your own footage. I get the nifty connection, the cross promotion you are doing, but you are making me sad. Seriously sad. What's worse is that you are making my kids sad. What in the mother hell were you thinking? Harpooning whales? Just stop now.

It's like, "Oh, look, a promo for one of their shows about nature... what are they doing? Oh my god, is that a... harpoon? Oh my god... OH MY GOD! The poor whale! OH MY GOD THE BLOOD! Why?! WHY ARE YOU SHOWING ME THIS?! I just want to watch that show about those people who are pretending to be in the post-nuclear-apocalyptic-virus-ravaged world (which is set in an abandoned warehouse in downtown LA. How fitting. Did you have to do any set moderation, or was it just all how you actually found it?)."

Your people in charge of both OnDemand and Advertising should be fired. Immediately.

Love and killer-whale-eating-your-collective-face,

Sarah

P.S. You people are assholes.

"The president is cock-blocking our vacation."

This is not a phrase I ever expected to utter, yet there I was, last Saturday on Bridge Street in Bar Harbor, Maine.

Little did we know, back in November when we started planning this trip, that, the day before we left, Obama'd be like, "Bar Harbor? I hear their lobstas and local brews are kick-ass! Count me in!"
"Uh, no, sorry, Barack. This is a family vacation," I said.
"No problemo!" he replied. "I'll bring the first-fam!"

Obviously this was not going to go well.

So we finally get to Desert Island (that's desert as in "we don't desert our soldiers!", not like, "damn, it's hot in this desert!")(okay, yeah, like "mmmm! brownies and ice cream for dessert!), and damned if Google Navigation didn't go, "Here's your hotel!... What?... What do you mean, this isn't even the right goddamn road?". So, fine, we have to just drive along the right road- there aren't exactly a lot... hmm. Detour. Off the road our hotel is on.
"Listen. Michelle, the kids, and I just need a little privacy."
"Oh, do you, Barack? You need an entire block? A block that spans a quarter mile?"
"It's not me, it's the Secret Service."
"Screw the Secret Service! This is Maine! The only thing that's going to come after you is a moose! And the Secret Service cannot protect you from a moose! Those things are vicious!"

Which, let me just interrupt myself here and say this, this situation right here is exactly why I am a map-kind-of-girl, and not a depend-on-any-stupid-gps-system-kind-of-girl. The island, in essence, has no cell reception. This is bad when you need directions, but the rest of the time? So great. You know that dude who is blocking the sidewalk, gabbing business on his cell? Not in Bar Harbor. Know that annoying middle-aged woman, yelling into her phone about the amazing view at the top of that peaceful mountain? Not in Bar Harbor, baby.

So, being our resourceful selves, we find our way to the hotel. Guess what the front desk clerk is yammering on about? Did you know that normally there are soooo many rooms available? But not now! Lots of Obama roadies! Not to mention the media! Blugh.

The next morning we head down to the Sand Bar. In Caps. This is what Bar Harbor is named for. It is a sandbar which, at low tide, is exposed, giving a path over to an island. The locals just call it Bridge Street because it is, indeed, a continuation of the road. Twice a day. At low tide. Low tide varies, obviously, but you're looking at about twelve and a quarter-ish hours between each. This means, oh, for example, 9:30 am and 10:50 pm on a particular day. This means that if you- for some reason- miss an opportunity to go, you have to wait until the next day, that is unless you want to get lost in the woods by moonlight.

We parked a block away at eight am, and walked down the road. As we got nearer to Bridge Street, I started slowing, looking at the several police cars parked in the road. We got to the corner across the street, where a local was standing with her dog.
"So... did they actually close down the entire sandbar?"
"They sure did."
"Wow."
"Yeah. It's too bad, it's his favorite walk." She indicated the dog.
"That... kinda stinks."
"Well, it's not every day you have the president come to your town!" True excitement in her voice, though I can almost guarantee she never caught a glimpse of him.
"Yeah, well, this isn't my town, lady, and this is some bullshit!" No, this is not what I said. What I actually said was a muttered "guess so", but it's sure as hell what I was thinking.

So then I went to schedule a flying-tour of the entire island, only to find out that the whole island had become a no-fly zone for the entirety of his stay.

*crickets*

Okay, that last paragraph was crap. Yes, the island was a no-fly zone, but the hell if we have the kind of money for a plane tour.

In honesty, we had such a great time at Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park, and the president's visit actually impacted us very little, other than what I already mentioned. Lots of "Welcome Mr. Prez and Fam" signs everywhere. The mini-golf offered "free game if your dad is the president"*. Obama/Biden '08 signs. Just some "yay to you for coming" stuff.

*Barack Obama is my baby-daddy.

I know, another other-driver-on-the-road complaint. Skip it if you want; no one's holding a gun to your head.

To- okay, more like "at"- a truck driver who had parked half on the shoulder, half in the lane of a major road, and then also had his driver side door open, thereby taking up the entire (and only, in that direction) lane- on yet another blind curve, which was also on the top of a blind hill*,

Me: Way to be a moron, Ohio Idiot. (Because he had an Ohio plate, of course.)

Ethan: Who, me?

Connor: Yes. That is your new nickname. "Ohio Idiot".

*A lot of blind stuff around here lately, huh?

On the one hand, this is what it takes to get some cleaning done.

On the other, of course they only clean to destroy art... or maybe it's to hide the embarrassing fact that they never do clean otherwise. Fifty-fifty?

"So... what do I write on the ticket? That he's not voluntarily cleaning thoroughly enough? Uhm, how about restricting the flow of traffic? No, wait, that's us."

Check out the followup:

Dear Sir,

I appreciate that you decided to pull over to the side of the road in order to take a phone call. However, perhaps you could have chosen not to pull over on the highway off-ramp? Yeah, that super curvy one, the one with nearly blind curve. Perhaps the road the off-ramp connects to would have been a more logical choice? Or, say, that half-empty, free, carpool parking lot? The one right in front of your dumb face? You know, so as to not cause an accident. Of course, your poor decision making skills make me feel really safe that you share the road with me. Moron.

I Have a Confession

Please don't think less of me.

I...

sigh

Okay, like a band-aid. (No, not braille-y. Rip-quick-for-less-pain.)

I am and/or was a fan of the Twilight series of books.

Deep inhale. Deep exhale. A weight has been lifted.

So the am/was of it all is due to the fact that I finished reading the main series within days of release of the last book and have not really looked back. When I was reading them, I really liked them. I read every spare minute of the day. The children scavenged the remains of the pantry. Sam talked divorce. And then I was done, and I haven't picked any of the series back up since I finished the fourth book.

And then my sister Lindsey and I made a mad dash for the first movie when it was released, and... eh.

In fairness, I'm pretty much guaranteed to not enjoy a movie made from a book that I loved. And I really did not enjoy it. Whatever, I've never seen the second movie, and have no plan to see the other two-still-to-come. And, please, don't try to convince me that the book series sucks or that the movies are the best things ever shown in a movie theater. I really don't care.

This all comes about because I was listening to NPR this morning (criminy, let's see if I can fit one more link in this post), and this particular "news item" (really?) was about those nutters who are camping outside the red carpet for the premiere of the latest movie- no, not to see it, because they are in no way getting in. They are camping in order to get a look at/picture of the stars of said movie.

Need I repeat that?

Here's another kicker. They've already been given their wristbands that guarantee their "entrance" (though not necessarily position, I suppose), so they are free to leave. They're not budging.

I know.

This post has gotten long. If you're still reading, thanks. Let's get to it.

So this, I dunno, reporter? broadcaster? Wtf-ever he was, he profiled two groups of campers. The first group was so-and-so and her eight friends, "and I use the term 'friends' loosely." Oh yeah? Did they meet on-site? That's why "friends" may not really apply? No, they met online. Hey, f**ker! Therefore they could not be friends? Just "friends"? Rather judgey of him. I admit, I don't talk to many people online. Pretty much just Cassie (bam!) most of the time, but what the hell? In an age where so many people meet or chat or comment or blog or share or create/join a community online, I think a statement like that is a quick way to get a lot of hate-email.

Let's move on to group two. They called themselves, I think, Twi-Moms? Something where they combined "Twilight" and "Mom". Ladies? Stop doing this shit. It is creepy and disgusting. If you want to lust after these boys, fine... maybe? Honestly, it's still a little eww. Reading the books, it's easy to find a piece of yourself in the main character, easy to remember being that teenage girl. But watching the movie, putting these boy faces onto the love interests (oh, lord, spoiler there, I suppose- but if you haven't read them yet, odds are you probably aren't going to) just ups the nasty factor. (Maybe this is why I didn't like the movie? No, it still just sucked.) So, A! Lusting after boys- boys with boy faces, you can't imagine you are their age. You can NOT. And then B. You go and add "mom" into it? You go and make it sound incestuous? No, do not argue. That is what you crazy bitches did. You took "yucky" and turned it into "criminal".

As Cassie just said to me, "As much as the term 'cougar' annoys me, at least it doesn't denote 'motherhood'." And what's more, because I share the label "mother" with you, you are dragging me with you into your world of skin-crawly-molesty-foul. Please. Just. Stop.

Blackhawks WIIIIIIIIIIIN!

Woohoo, bitches!

P.S. Not a single person had an answer on the braille band-aids? Mother hell. For shame.

Googling "band-aid" and "braille" gets you- along with *this* topic- pages that provide really stupid pick-up lines. Gentlemen, don't use these.

Apparently pharmaceutical packaging in the EU is required to have braille on it, as of this year.

This is the most boring first sentence of a post I have ever written. Blah.

Anyway! What this means, in some ass-backward way, is that the latest Band-Aid brand bandages that have made their way into my abode have braille. It's possible that off brand ones would, too- truly, I am not a brand snob- but I can't find any in my possession that do. (This doesn't mean that they're not currently sold with braille. Possibly the ones I have just pre-date this six-month old new mandate (that doesn't actually apply to my little spot of the world, yet here we are with braille boxes)... What? They're bandaids adhesive bandages, they don't expire. Or maybe they do, but I can't make myself care about that.)

So I present to you a couple of examples of said bandages:

That's right, Spongebob bandaids. I know you're jealous.

Now here is the possible conundrum. I am not blind. I don't currently know anyone who is. This raises two issues. A! I am not... fluent? literate? in braille. And B! I don't have anyone to ask.

And this is where I sound like an asshole. It seems like, really, it shouldn't be so hard to figure out, like, gee, I think I can decipher the code, play matchy-matchy with a braille cheat sheet. But this makes me sound like that filthy american who can "yo ahblo el esspanyolo". Because maybe I don't get the subtle nuances of braille. Maybe the little bit of extra space is exceptionally significant. Perhaps there's a symbol not listed on any sheet I've found, or maybe the language differs in other countries.

Or maybe Johnson and his son are the assholes.

Because, as far as I can tell, that says "nand-aid". Go ahead, google "braille" and get your own cheat sheet. Even Wikipedia isn't solving this one.

And this is where I make you, my dear readers, feel like assholes. Because someone needs to comment and educate me. Or someone needs to comment and redeem me. And the bit where you feel like an asshole? I'm assuming most of you are as "fluent" in braille as I. But someone has a blind friend. And that someone's reaction is going to be, "Hey! This girl thinks she knows braille better than Johnson and Johnson! Get over here and look at this and prove this bitch wrong!" Yeah, see? You're an asshole. At best you'll, "Uhm, dot-dot? And then one that looks like a colon?"

So, instead of dragging your blind friend over to the computer to look at my Spongebob bandaids, just go ahead and treat them to, oh, I don't know, a shopping spree at the grocery store? And just, all casual, hand them a box of bandaids.

Let me know how it goes.

A Little Butt-Crack Among Friends

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room- yes, a full length mirror. If you don't have one, you are doing yourself a disservice. You can often tell someone who doesn't have a full length mirror in their house because, daa-yum, you should not be wearing those pants.

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked- yes, naked. I would make excuses about having just gotten out of the bath, which is true, but this is my bedroom, y'all. I walk around naked. Get past it.

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked, as I was making the bed- okay, yes, making the bed naked is a little odd, I admit, but it was naked, too- sheets came off and never went back on this morning. And I wanted to go to bed. And Sam's not home. And I am not sleeping on a naked bed, that's just skeevy. And I'm a little drunk. But it's all fine because the sheets are now on the bed.

So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked, as I was making the bed, when I noticed that the sunburn on my lower back was smaller than usual. I know, odd sentiment. But the fact is, as I work outside, inevitably my shirt- usually a tank-top, hence the matching burned shoulders and upper back- works its was upward, revealing the hitherto un-publicly-known lower back (oh, hell, and love handles and belly). This is due to the fact that the stretchmarks that decorate said belly and love handles stretch all the way around my waist. What in the living hell was stretching during pregnancy that my back had to get involved? Please answer me that.

Several moments of drunken contemplation led to me the conclusion that this- the smaller burn area- is not because today's shirt was longer than usual. No, indeed. This was because said shirt was not nearly as tight, leading it to not have to work so damn far up over the aforementioned love handles.

Excellent.

This, however, was not the greatest of revelations in those few confused moments. The far more profound one was that this patch of sun burn sat directly on top of the crack of my rear. There is a T printed on my ass. The problem with this? Exactly how much of my crack was I showing off today? For it to be burnt right to the very upper edge, my pants must have been slipping down past that point repeatedly. So during all this yard work, I'm actually playing plumber. And did I mention the T my tush is donning?

I only have myself to blame. I'm down eight pounds to where I was last year (yeah, woohoo, except it was twelve pounds), which leads to the offending moon-show, and I refuse to buy new pants until I drop more. This hasn't happened in eight months, yet here I wait. It seems so stupid to spend money on clothes you hope to shrink out of. As I am the Official Bitch of Murphy's Law, something like my buying pants would lead to me losing weight in a manner to thus lead to me not being able to wear those clothes.

I'd just lose it in the form of a dog attack to my thigh or something.

No matter where we all fall on the political spectrum (although, let's be honest, if you read my blog, the odds are against "conservative"...

...being one of your defining characteristics. It could be! All are welcome! Just odds against.), can we all just agree to stop using the term "teabaggers" for the current conservative movement? (NSFW. Holy hell, NSFW.) (Mom, please don't click that link. I said don't click that link!)

Please? Can we please choose a new term?

Dear Industry of Growers of Chickens,

I know that we, as a society, want everything bigger and faster and more, more more, more! (Everyone's inner-reading-voice should have just converted to Boris Karloff- "And they'd sing! AND they'd SING! SING! SING! SING"!) (That was a reference to How the Grinch Stole Christmas! If you didn't get that from the last set of parentheses, you should never tell me because I will make fun of you forEVER.) I get it. The chickens have been bred for their breast-size, much like Hollywood actresses. You've gotten to the point that the poor little chickys can't stand up on their own, much less even flap their wings. All because we Americans like maintaining our fat asses, and it's way cheaper to grow one huge chicken than two little ones.

So, yes, I get why chickens, and more specifically chicken breast, has gotten bigger and bigger over the years. But this?

That's frickdiculous. Absofrickinlutely frickdiculous. Yeah, I had to double up on the made-up words to express the point. Thanks for that, too, Industry of Growers of Chickens.

Loveys and salmonella,

Sarah

She's been begging for dance or gymnastics lessons...

So our conversations constantly alternate between all of the good reasons to get a dog and all of the good reasons for her to go to ballet or hip-hop or tap or gymnastics or...

Emily: ...and I really like dancing!
Ethan: Me, too!
Emily: You could take dancing lessons, too!
Ethan: No, thanks. I think I'm a great dancer.

This is a post that is a link to a link.

Which I apologize for.

We've all heard about the girl who wanted to take her girlfriend to the prom. No, I didn't stutter. Girl, girlfriend. She is- gasp- a teenage lesbian. And her school said, "no". And the court said, "uh uh, motherfuckers, that's not allowed." And her school threw a pissy-fit and said, "FINE then! We didn't want to have a prom anyway, you big meanies! That is unless any one of our discriminatory disgusting asshole fine upstanding citizens would like to hold a private party for our select un-embarrassing students that we don't have to hide in the basement. Then we're totally into it."

Yeah, well. It's gone further. The Bloggess was upset by this. Read it. Follow the link.

The Bloggess was upset. She was hurt in her heart. I'm just pissed off. Listen up, state of Mississippi. Stand up and be counted as being against Itawamba Agricultural High School (yes, I am calling you fucking morons out by name), lest ye be painted with the same brush. This maliciousness is what is representing your state right now. Loud and clear, assert yourself.

This goes for everyone else, too. As I have always told my children, when you silently stand by when an atrocity is committed, you are supporting those who are inflicting it. Got it? Your silence is support to those that would do wrong.

Stand up. Speak up.

And there you have peek number three into my brain- just in time for my dialogue with myself.

This morning, the first thing I typed to Cassie was, "i'm going to investigate a noise. if i'm not back in five minutes, call the police." She responded with, "will do".

I'm not entirely sure this was the most logical way for me to go about things.

In situations like this, I always debate my under-reaction and my over-reaction. I refuse to be the chick who calls the police over a noise at her window that ends up being a bird flapping around. But I'm also not going to be the one who is killed in her home because she startled a burglar. So how do I appropriate-level-react?

If I had called Sam, I figured he'd have said, "There's no one in the house... No, there's not... Honey, stop... Fine! What's it sound like?... What the hell does "two spoons" sound like?... I don't have any spoons to test it out, just tell me... Well, where's the noise coming from?... What do you mean you don't know? Find out... Find out... By walking around!... Listen, I don't have time for this. If you're really worried, call the police. If you're not, then just go!... Well what if it's the furnace exploding?"

See? He'd be no help at all.

But I figured at least someone should know that I was going to go all bad-ass investigator. I wasn't entirely clear on how Cassie would react to my request- had I not returned. Possibly, I put her in an awkward position. If it were me, I'd try calling her first. Although I'd wait longer. And then I'd get no answer and I'd call again frantically and still no answer and then I'd call the police and they'd balk at me and I'd demand they react and then she'd be dead, all because I'm a horrible person.

And now you've had your second peek into the running stories I have going on inside my head.

Alright, I just asked her what she'd have done.

me: okay, i have an important question
what would you have done if i hadn't come back in five minutes?
Flutterby: i was debating that, actually
prob at the 5 min mark, i would've msg'd you while digging through my chats, etc to find your address
i estimated it would take me an add'l 5 min to come up with your address and the number for your localish PD
and then I prob would've called bc better safe than sorry
i figured if you said 5 and you weren't back in the add'l 5, that was reasonable to make a phone call
then i would've played spider solitaire or something :P

She is apparently a better person than I. Better at keeping other people alive, anyway.

So back to the noise. I leave that message with Cassie, and I slowly walk into the front hallway to try to pinpoint the noise. The noise stops. Of course. I head toward the upstairs. The noise starts up again. Dammit! It's coming from the basement. (We all know how much I love the basement.) I open the door, peek down there, realize I can see nothing, and then belly-down on the floor to get a better view. Yes, yes I really do. I am about to go down the stairs when I realize, as I'm saying in my head, "this-is-so-stupid this-is-so-stupid this-is-so-stupid". Is it so stupid that I'm afraid to go downstairs? No. It's stupid to go down there without a weapon. So I turn around and search the living room. Connor's lunch bag- what the hell is that doing here instead of at school with him? Whatever, not a good weapon. Where's the bat? (Why did I think there's going to be a bat in my living room? I have no idea.) Crap. Weapon, weapon, weapon. There is nothing bludgeoningable in this room! I know, a knife! I tippy-toe into the kitchen, find a pointy knife. Wait. Would I be able to stab someone if it came down to it?... Yes, yes I could. Okay, down the stairs. Slowly, slowly. (Because someone who is hiding in my basement- playing with spoons- isn't going to have noticed me opening the door and sneaking down.) I squat down on the landing halfway down the stairs and rotate on the spot, searching the noise out. I'm not turning the lights on- better to be blind than to let the psycho-spoon-playing-killer get a better view of me. Ah! What the hell is that?! Oh, the ping-pong table. (Why was this more threatening than all the other crap piled up in the basement? I have no idea. Because psycho-spoon-playing-killers are actually big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killers, I guess.) The noise kicks in again. Alright, that's it. The lights are going on because... because the sudden light will blind the big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killer and I'll get the jump on him! (I watch entirely too much police-drama television.) The noise is coming from... there! Crap. The furnace. Why is the furnace playing spoons? Dammit, I hate it when Sam's right- wait, wasn't that in my head?

This was the point when the furnace turned off altogether. I couldn't therefore solve the mystery, but that was fine because it meant it wasn't a big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killer. Screw it. Sam can solve the furnace issue when he gets home. So long as it doesn't blow up in the meantime.

And this is just the stuff I remember because I dug through my old chats with Cassie. Probably I should get a diary.

Most of the time, in this house, I am not involved in the better conversations. Sometimes, sometimes I am blessed enough to be a witness. Frankly, even when I'm part of the the conversation, I'm still usually just a witness.

Rule number one: Ethan is always a participant.
Rule number two: The conversation is always just two people.
Rule number three: Usually, the second party in the conversation has to be doing something completely unrelated to anything, especially whatever Ethan is doing at the time.
Rule number four: It must be quiet.
This is because these are the conditions in which the true Ethan emerges.

Connor is drawing a monster. Ethan is creating his own... whatever. Probably a diorama. That's how he rolls.
Ethan: Is it a man-eater?
Connor: Yes.
Ethan: Good. I'm a boy.

Sam, short on time and temper: Now you guys get out in this hallway and pick up your clean clothes and fold them and put them away!
Ethan: Good morning!
Sam: Good morning!
Ethan: Guten Tag!
Sam: Bonjour!

Ethan: Oh, Daddy, you're wearing your wedding ring!
Sam: Yep.
Ethan: Do you always wear your wedding ring?
Sam: Sometimes.
Ethan: You sometimes always wear your wedding ring? That doesn't make any sense.

Ethan: Mommy! While I was going to the bathroom, I figured out there are 22 letters in my name!

Emily: Pohtahto is just a stupid, fake way of saying potato.
Ethan: Nuh uh! The guy on Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares says it that way!

Sam: Hoohoo! Hoo hoo hoohoo!
Ethan: Raaawwwwrrrrr!
Sam: No! I'm making bird noises.
Ethan, deadpan: Tweet. Tweet. I tawt I taw a puddy-tat.

Ethan, eying a banana suspiciously: Bananas don't deserve to have stickers on them. ^rip^

Ethan: (Uncle) Jason asked me to get him a soda.
Me: Okay.
Ethan: And I did.
Me: That's good.
Ethan: Connor told me I should shake it.
Me: What'd you do?
Ethan: I didn't shake it.
Me: Good decision.
Ethan: Because it's not good to put soda on the ceiling. Or Jason's face.

Ethan: When is Father's Day?
Sam:Next weekend. But Father's Day isn't as important as Mother's Day.
Ethan: Why?
Sam: Moms are just more important.
Ethan: Well, you're special to me, Daddy!

From upstairs: BAM!
Me: What was that?!
Ethan: Nothing!
Me: Did you break some-
Ethan: NO!
Me: Whatnow?
Ethan: Why would you think I broke something?

Emily: I promise.
Ethan: Right hand to god with your left hand in front. And don't cross your toes. And don't cross your eyes and don't cross your arms and don't cross anything!

Ethan's playing with a batman colorform set. Connor comes over, peels one off, re-affixes it.
Ethan: What are you doing!?!?
Connor: Fixing it. He was upside down.
Ethan: I know! I put him upside down! He hit his head!

And this sampling doesn't even include times when he manages to debate an adult into a puddle or when a conversation is going on around him, him seemingly completely ignoring everything but what he's super-concentrating on, then suddenly pipes up with an opinion that he truly shouldn't have.

You want to know what really went down at any given time? Ask Ethan.

But only the beers you serve with lime. The regular kind of beer is full of uck.

Sam and I stopped by a quick-stop-and-go-gas-station place for beer. I set it at the register and sort of stepped away so Sam could pay. Okay, what I really did was turn away and stare longingly at the enormous candy display behind me, reciting (In my head, only, thanks. I'm not completely insane.), and this sounds like The Little Train That Shouldn't, "I don't need candy. I don't need candy. I don't need candy."

And as I'm standing there, trying to ignore the Whatchamacallit, I sort of sense... the woman behind the counter is doing... nothing?

I look at her curiously. "Hi," I say, trying to prompt her ass to just ring up my beer, already.

But because I am obsessive about the candy (and also, to get some, I must choose one before the bitch hits "total"), I turned back to the display.

Yet there is still no beepy-beepy meaning she's ringing up. But there is, "Uhm, do you have any ID?" So I turned and smirked (okay, and snorted) at Sam because, seriously? Neither of us will ever again pass for traditional college students. But he handed over his license, and she studied it. And studied it. Then she handed it back to him (I assume, because at this point I was still obsessing with the SweeTarts), and I hear, "I'm going to need your ID, too."

...

Aren't we being a tiny protective of the beer?

But I held my tongue (mostly) and handed over my license so we could just get the hell out of there. Seriously. Bitch. Wrap up the beer. Oh. Mygod.

It wasn't until I was climbing back into the car that it occurred to me. Okay, so maybe my obsession with the candy display, the awkward ignoring of the activity at the cash register, my continuous back-turning to her. Maybe it looked a little bit like me turning away to hide my face? And that dude, the one who was obviously old enough to buy booze, but he's with that chick who isn't making eye-contact, who's acting kinda sneaky? And who isn't, for whatever reason, making the purchase herself. Huh. Maybe someone needs to call the cops.

Ethan is Already Planning Out His Own Time in Fatherhood

I had on the 19 Kids and Counting show this morning.

Shut up.

And, forewarning, I've got another post about the show in edit right at this moment, so I should think you'd be best served by learning to deal now.

So I was playing a DVR'd episode of the show this morning- yes, I not only watch the show, I record it.

For anyone who is not currently sneering at their screen, I'll give a brief description of the show. Super religious couple, they have 19 children. Nope, none adopted. Her poor uterus. The oldest child, Josh, is married to Anna, and they have a baby.

That's all you need to know to appreciate this.

So we're watching this episode- that is, Ethan is sitting on the sofa with me, Sam is in the room- I'm pretty sure he'll claim he wasn't watching. This bit of the episode is focused on Josh and Anna and baby, getting baby ready, taking baby on trip, hoping baby will be good on the plane, blah blah blah. Ethan is kind of absorbing this, seemingly not paying too much attention. He wrinkles up his nose, squints up his beautiful blues... "*scoff* They're penguins."

Eh? I raise an eyebrow to Sam. He shrugs. Back to Ethan. "What?"

Ethan rolls his eyes, gets up to walk out of the room. "They. Are penguins."

"What does that meeaann?" I whine after him.

He turns back around, flings a hand toward the television. "They never put that baby down."

Wow. Apparently Ethan, at seven, has already decided he's not a fan of attachment parenting. I probably shouldn't mention to him that he spent his first eight months of life sleeping in a co-sleeper.

Remember when I told you about that good friend I lost?

Except not that for-serious post. This one. Which was the follow up to this one. They were all about a particular spam email that really pleased me. I was checking my spam folder again for blog fodder anything sent there by mistake, and noticed it had reached a personal high for spam count. Thirteen! Let's discuss.

To begin, I just don't think anything official would have a from line of "loteryclaimsoffice2009". Now, of course I have previous dealings with, er... "JAPANESE WORLD CYBER GAMES" (What the hell, spellcheck? "Cyber" isn't a word? And neither is "spellcheck"???), but the real people know how to spell their own from line. Der.

Up next! As I would never subject an email I wrote as "DEAR SARAH" (besides the fact that I never give any of my emails a subject) (you're welcome, people with whom I correspond), I would therefore never receive back an "RE :DEAR SARAH". However! The beginning of the email is apparently, "Dear SARAH Good day and God bless you. I feel quite safe..."; me, too, rechelleyton. Me, too. And thanks!

Then mary_wong is harping on the "Japan Lottery" again. Can't trick me! You are not my contact with them, bitch!

What I don't get about this next one is why itunes is concerned with ((((Percocet-Aderall-Viagra-Vicodin)))) usage. I've already had my intervention, thankyouverymuch.

iborilucky wants to know, "CAN YOU SUPPLY OIL MATERIAL?" What. the. fuck. Please, no one explain this to me.

And THEN someone is trying to get me with the New Zealand lotto. Well fool me once, folks! I only play the JAPAN CYBER LOTTO. Morons.

And then there're a couple more people all up in my business about my drug use again. Bastards. Although the "Love love pill Offer Pack" has admittedly got me curious. The pill so nice they named it twice. But no capitalization for you, asshole. "Offer" and "Pack" are mucho mas importante. (Imagine the accent marks there. I'm not searching out those keystrokes.)

Let's see... another JAPAN LOTTERY faker. This one used "TOYOTA". Apparently spammers don't read the news... itunes is up in my craw about my drug use again... "noreply" doubled up! One email offering me drugs followed closely by one offering me online gaming. Wow. noreply is spreading himself thin, these days...

Oh. My. GOONIE. (as Connor says)

This one is for real, y'all! It's from a barrister! (A foreign one, obviously.) barristerbrwn12 says, "Re: Dear Sarah"... fuck. Okay, we'll just ignore that. "My name is brown Liam, a Malaysian national and personal At...". "At" what??? "Attache"??? Oh, wait. Probably "Attorney". I'm kind of insulted that brown Liam felt the need to translate it for me. Also, you'd think a lawyer wouldn't put up with shit like being called "brown Liam". Unless this nickname keeps him from getting mixed up with "douchebag Liam" or "bigamist Liam" in the office. Who am I to judge? All I know is goddamned gmail screwed up once again and deposited non-spam email into the spam folder! What if I had not decided to mock the spam folder and had missed this?

Anyone know if I can sue gmail? Hang on, I bet brown Liam knows. I've got an email to respond to.

I just paid eighty bucks for the doctor to tell me to put my daughter on the BRAT diet.

Because apparently letting her eat fried chicken and grapefruit with an upset stomach is a bad idea.

Apparently.

Go me.

I'm an awe-inspiring mother.

You know when they're little, and they use a phrase because they want whatever that phrase achieves for them, but they don't actually understand...

...the words that they are using, and it isn't until they've started speaking clearly, and yet they're still using that odd pronunciation, that it occurs to you that, no, he really has no idea what he was saying?

Ethan: "Crap, snapple, pop, rice krispies!"

It's kinda like that.

I Love My Country (And My Sister Kimberly)

I thought I'd start with that because, well, there are so many ultra-conservative assholes who think that anyone with any-any-any liberal opinions is anti-American. And they are known for reading my blog. Right?

So, yes, this will be a vaguely heavily politics saturated post.

Let's discuss what happened in Massachusetts. That state (you're a state, you bastards. Uppity commonwealth b.s.) just elected a Republican to replace the well-known, well-loved, well-Dem'd Ted Kennedy. (How did Ted become the nickname for Edward? It's further off than Dick is to Richard.) (Although I've known some Richards who were definitely Dicks.)

And that's fine by me. Massachusetts had a message to send. And in our fair democratic (as in democracy) nation, that's exactly what the vote is for. Those politi-bastards in the Capitol need to have their collective ass handed to them every once in a while. Or often. Let's go with often.

And if our government ran like it was supposed to (hey, did you notice the size of that "if"?), i.e. citizens elected a representative (lower case "r") that represented their views and then said representative went to our land's beloved capital and- and here's the kicker- represented those people that voted for him/her, and voted in the best interest of those people- oh, and maybe, say, the rest of the country- well, hell, that would have been a damn fine message for them to send!

Except for the completely effed up "us versus them" mentality of the aforementioned politi-bastards. I'm sure you remember, those in this country who share my United States citizenship (and those who don't) (and those in other countries who learn more about our country than we ever do), from back in your basic school lessons in Government and U.S. History, that we as a nation did not start out with this two-party, my-penis-is-bigger-than-your-penis, elephant-donkey crapola. George Washington not only was not a member of a political party, he was actually opposed to them. Can't imagine why.

Yet here we stand (okay, we're Americans, so here we sit), 13 score and several years later, and we can't get shit for shit done because they're so busy counting sides and no one will step a toe off their party's line because god forbid they think for themselves. Except when it comes to voting themselves a raise. That reminds me. I need to get my coworkers together- see if they'd all like to vote us some cost-of-living wage increases.

So I think we need to help them get out of their own way. Which, I think, is what Massachusetts voters had in mind. But it needs to be broader than a single politician change-over. My very first thought? How about this funny little thing that we have that applies to the presidential office, but, miraculously, not to the Senate or House. That thing is called a "term limit". Why is this a good thing you ask?

Well. You, my lovely readers, are frickin' geniuses. No doubt. However! If you're in public right now, look around. If you're in the office right now, look around. Next time you're in traffic, look around. In the grocery store, in the bank, everywhere you go, every time you watch television, every website you visit- other than this one (and your own, of course). All those people. Those people? Are fucking morons. They cannot be trusted. But the vast majority of them, their votes count just as strongly as yours. And if they see a name they recognize and see a name they don't, they're going with the one they recognize- even if by "recognize", they "vaguely remember that name from a newspaper or something". Like that article about the corrupt politician (redundant, sorry) accepting bribes from the local mob boss. But the fact is, nine times out of ten, the incumbent gets reelected. (No, I'm not citing this stat. You don't just trust me by now?) And, no, this is not all just because of morons. There are other factors. But most of those factors are not "I am so much better than my pathetic opponent". Wouldn't it be great if some of these politi-bastards spent a little less time campaigning and a little more time doing the whole improve-our-country job thingy?

But that would involve putting their country first and themselves second by voting term limits on their own j-o-b-s.

And speaking of campaigning, wouldn't it be fan-frickin'-tastic if we outlawed campaign ads on television? Oh, mygod. My October would be brilliant.

Cate Just Brought Something to My Attention

In response to yesterday's post, I found this:

Call Me Cate said...
So what happens when he googles the right combination to find your blog?!?!?

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Sonuvabitch.

Great. Now I have to figure out how to preemptively block a site that is not specifically associated with pornography. Thanks for giving me more work, Cate.

I am so not overreacting.

As a good parent, you're supposed to monitor your children's computer activities. This is what "they" say, right?

Well, anyway, part of the new protection software that Sam installed for all our computers was monitoring software. Which we don't hide. In fact, the first thing we told the children upon them getting computering privileges was that we were monitoring every single thing they did- every single keystroke! Which was a total lie- by the way, free parenting tip- lie to your children. Seriously that "never lie" stuff is bullshit. There are some times that lying is not only the "easy" choice, it's the right one.

Where were we?

Spying. Right.

So he installed this software, and I figured it would be limited to monitoring their internet use. No. Apparently it informs on everything. And I'm not really sure how I feel about that. I mean, I do know how I feel. The only thing I really need to know about is whether they're giving out personal information or talking to strangers on the internet. Guaranteed? These kids are going to be doing things that I do not like. On and off the computer. Guaranteed? I absolutely did things that my mother did not approve off. But it didn't harm me. I am alive and healthy today. I swear.

So, yes, I want to know what they're doing online. Out of pure curiosity, I of course want to know what else they're doing. Who here wouldn't want to see every iota of what their spouse does? And then kill them for it. So it's probably a bad idea. Same thing goes with kids. I know Connor swears (yes. he has me for a mother. you can all just shut up.). But he's smart enough not to do it in front of me. And I'm okay with that. Because- and here's that defining line- it is not going to harm him.

And this is not denial. It's not "out of sight, out of mind". It is the fact that they are separate-and-apart-from-me human beings. And as much as I want to be up in their business at every possible moment, growth requires space and freedom.

Thus! I take that step back.

Most of the time. I'm also nosy as hell.

So I scanned Connor's internet use when Sam first presented this new ability to me. And it's searches for cheats (for video games, people!), searches for online games, nothing surprising...

And then.

"Well this just pisses me off." I stabbed my poor laptop monitor with a finger. "Oh... no...", Sam said, peering at my screen. There, glaring up at me from a list of benign search terms like "poptropica" and "hulu", was the offense.

"how do you get the peanut butter crackers on big nate island in poptropica"

What. The. FRIGGIDY.

Anyone remember this? My own child! How could he!

There will be blood. There WILL be blood.

I don't have the energy for this, New Jersey.

Blah blah blah you suck blah blah blah fuckatards, all of you (okay, not 14 of you- the other 20 of you should just sod off) blah blah blah... listen, just go read this. And this.

Oh, and a special double-bird-flip goes out to the backward-out-his-ass-talking Michael Doherty. He's the State Senator from the Washington Township in Warren County. Here's his quote. "Suddenly, today, there's implications that you're discriminating against folks when you want to maintain that definition."

Uhm, yeah. Asshole. If that "definition" you're "maintaining" is "I'm gonna keep it this way because how the hell else can I prove that I'm better than you?" That's exactly what you're doing. Let me reiterate. Asshole. (And, by the by, global warming? Being a skeptic therein? Ass. HOLE.)

And just because somehow there's more about him than New Jersey in general in this post- New Suck Suck Jersey Suck Suck.